


Presence

by sleepydemons



Category: Football RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Confidence, Experimental, Liverpool F.C., POV First Person, Pride, Swearing, extremely experimental style, i'm upset that he's retired and i just wanted to write a little about him, pre football game setting, short fic, team understanding, vague description of dan's feelings before a big game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 08:24:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7162181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepydemons/pseuds/sleepydemons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan's in the zone as he prepares for an important game in front of the Anfield fortress under the lights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Presence

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to stop crying about Dan so instead of moping, I put some of my favourite heavy music on and this kind of came from there, my pride for him just pouring out
> 
> (I just really wanted to say something, without the pressure of /saying something/ if that makes any sense?)
> 
> I've never written first person before so sorry if it doesn't flow or anything...
> 
> Comments are welcome and massively appreciated!

The air is thick. Anfield is raw as fuck tonight. It’s insane.

An hour from kick off, the sky already nearing pitch black with the floodlights blaring to light up the ground. It’s a fortress out there already, songs being belted out clearer than I've ever imagined, and we’re about to head out and warm up in it. 

I had those thoughts clear in my mind, heavily, as I yanked at my tie ’til it was loose enough to slip it over my head swiftly, and didn’t even bother with the buttons on my dress-shirt I’m so ready to get my jersey on. My pride, as always, is screaming out for the occasion awaiting us.

The lads have got the music going, setting the tone just right, dark, heavy, very my style. I can feel it in my chest, pounding, getting me even more in the zone. I flex my neck to the right, then to the left. I can feel the confidence in my gut spreading throughout my body, my muscles warming up as I shake my shoulders loose.  
Walking over to the mirror I take note of the stern look on my face, I feel neutral and relaxed but as I connect with my own eyes I smirk, feeling the atmosphere so hard, noting how fucking ready I am. How fucking strong I feel. 

My pulse is vibrating in my ears along with the music, the veins curving up my arms extra bold beneath my ink, I must be tensing but I can’t tell through the adrenaline I’m feeling. My confidence is soaring. 

I’ve got that feeling in the back of my throat, like pent up energy I can’t wait to express in the form of yelling, running, sliding, blocking; the aggression getting ready to spill out when my instincts takeover on the field. 

Moving my hands up to my hair, I begin to re-style the length back into my haphazard mohawk. I'm fixing it up more to my messy style again after my jersey had flattened it as I pulled the blood red material down over my face, smoothing it skin tight and elegant over my chest to where it sits comfortably now, gracefully covering over my tattooed back.

 

The music changes and an even heavier song comes on. I look behind me in the mirror, over to Martin who catches my eye when he stands up and looks my way. I push my shoulders back, pushing my chin up and just nod at him. _This is definitely his playlist._ Spot on for a night like tonight.  
He returns my gesture with an acknowledging head tilt and a fiercely determined look on his face. We understand each other perfectly. Our partnership at the heart of our defence has been second to none. There’s no chance we’re breaking that tradition tonight. Both of us not even having to voice it to know we’re both damn sure about that.

When we leave this dressing room. _It’s outright war._

Can always count on a Skrtel playlist to be the one to get his constant powerful presence subliminally implemented through the whole dressing room whenever he gets his hands on music responsibilities. The opposition won’t know what’s fucking hit them.

Skrtel turns away, slapping the captain on the back in encouragement. I watch as Stevie turns to him, grabbing his shoulder in a deadlock embrace. Defiance all over his face. This is big, I can tell Stevie’s itching to get out there already. His eyes dark, his chest pushed up, he looks invincible. I’ll bet he feels it as well.  
I feel like my confidence grows even more at the sight of Stevie so powerful. We’ve got this. 

Anfield is ours. Liverpool is ours. Those supporters are ours. This game is ours.

Turing back to look at my reflection, my attention goes straight to the Liverbird on my jersey. On my chest. Over my heart. The last picture in my mind before I head out into that deafening, beautiful, extreme atmosphere, is that golden crest over my beating heart. 

I am ready fight for the Liverbird, for Anfield, for those Scousers out there watching us.  
I’m ready to scream for my club, I’m ready to work for my captain, I’m ready to win for this city.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm true-obsidian on tumblr if you want to cry/yell about football with me!


End file.
